


We Don't Need a Bigger Knife

by JeanLuciferGohard



Category: Gideon the Ninth - Tamsyn Muir, John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Gen, John Wick AU, camilla hect beats ass, horny for the sixth on main
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-13 15:38:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21496642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeanLuciferGohard/pseuds/JeanLuciferGohard
Summary: On the fourth floor of a profoundly ugly building in upstate New York, Gideon Nav shoots two ninjas in the head, and kicks a third off the balcony.It only gets worse from there.
Relationships: Camilla Hect & Palamedes Sextus, harrowhark nonagesimus/gideon nav
Comments: 10
Kudos: 76





	1. Totally Non-Lethal Taco Tuesday

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to the Locked Tomb Discord for enabling this

On the fourth floor of a profoundly ugly building in upstate New York, Gideon Nav shoots two ninjas in the head, and kicks a third off the balcony.

They drop like..well, bodies. You stay in the game long enough, you learn that nothing hit the ground quite like a corpse. 

The adrenaline chops everything up, turns it all into a strobing, syncopated rush of sounds: the glassy tinkle of ruined modernist glasswork, the ugly, wet crunch of the late ninja three hitting the floor below. Her own breath, laboured around a broken rib. The absolutely silent non-sound of a grey shadow slipping out around the side of a pillar, and surging forward to stab her in the kidney—

Gideon whirls, and the knife opens up an ugly, tectonic break over her hip instead. 

“Hey, what the  _ fuck!? _ ”

One day, there’ll be a totally non-lethal Tuesday, Gideon thinks, and nobody will try to stab her, or shoot her, or— _ shit _ —break her kneecaps with a brutally calculated leg sweep. She’ll wake up, go out, maybe get tostadas from that food truck everybody keeps talking about. Totally Non-Lethal Taco Tuesday. It’s coming.

In the meantime, Gideon hits the floor, rolling over her broken rib, bright sparks of pain popping like flashbulbs behind her eyelids, and only just manages to avoid getting stabbed in the eye. The blade shaves off an eyelash as it whistles past. Gideon does not flinch. Gideon scrabbles for her glock, and Gideon sees, from somewhere outside herself:

Grey suit, clean lines, but boxier than you’d expect. Two knives, so astonishingly, artlessly ugly, as if all the aesthetic appeal had been deliberately removed to make room for more sharpness. So nakedly _ bad to look at, _ only the most relentlessly faithful devotee of the blade would even try, and so terrifyingly large you couldn’t be blamed for wondering, while trying not to die, if they’re making up for something. A trim, compact body under the suit, honed to within an inch of its life to the singular purpose of kicking ass.

It’s always the hot ones.

She—they are a she, Gideon thinks, kicks the gun of Gideon’s hand with a merciless snap of her heel, and the knives sweep down, and Gideon hikes her lower back desperately off the floor, kicking out with both feet and praying it connects.

There’s kevlar in her jacket, but not enough to stop those  _ fucking knives _ . 

The woman staggers back, panting.

Gideon advances.

The woman cracks her neck, and stops, suddenly, pushing her cold brown bob free of her face with the edge of her knife.

“Nav?” she says, “You’re working again?”

“No I’m not?” Gideon tries, shrugging hopefully, “I just left my—it’s right over there, I’ll just go grab it real quick—”

“No, you won’t,” drawls Camilla Hect, shrugging off her boxy jacket. There are at least two more knives strapped to her forearms. She cocks her head to one side, a restless, avian jerk, and brings her knives back up to bear, and—

_ Crunch _ .

A pair of hands appears from around the corner. The hands are wrapped around a beretta. The beretta belongs to a man.

The hands are beautiful, long and blue-veined and graceful, the hands of a surgeon moonlighting as a virtuoso pianist. The gun is sleek and black. 

The man looks like roughly a dozen moray eels, or a lesser but still significant number of grey herons starring in a production of _ Richard II _ . The man is a non-euclidean tangle of jawlines and cheekbones poured into a slim, charcoal suit. His limbs are whippety and long, his glasses wire-rimmed and expensive. His shoulders are curiously wide, coat-hanger broad above the narrow span of his hips. His hair is dark, shaved down close enough you can see the lines of his skull. 

There are a lot of them.

“Cam?” He calls out, picking his way over the aforementioned ruined modernist glasswork, “What’s going on?”

His voice is the same as Camilla’s, faintly rasping, carefully laundered of any trace of an accent, dry-cleaned down to placeless crispness.

But whoever worked on Palamedes Sextus hadn’t done  _ quite _ as good a job, in that he still sounds very slightly European, and rich about it.

“Gideon’s working again,” Camilla calls back, rocking back and forth on her heels. Gideon amends her knife-count to four; there’s a sinister flatness on the outside of her calves, pressing up against the suit trousers.

“Oh? Is she?” Palamedes murmurs pleasantly, and his eyes shine behind his glasses, as if lit from within. He sounds, honestly, like this news is the single most interesting thing to have happened to him all day, like he is already composing the grant proposals to fund  _ immediate _ further inquiry into the matter.

It would be flattering, Gideon thinks, if he didn’t always sound like that.

“Carry on, then,” he says, “I’ll just be working over here.”

He perches at a computer terminal, and for a moment, he lays his gun on the desk, and Gideon genuinely, honestly thinks that she might get away with stealing it.

Then Camilla clears her throat loudly, and shoots him a Look, and Palamedes sighs, “Yes, I know,  _ thank you _ ,” and picks it up again, resting his temple against the grip while he types one-handed.

So:

No gun, no backup, no sleeves on Camilla Hect’s silvery dress shirt, which is a fun development, and no way past her  _ or _ Palamedes without a fight. There’s still her glock, lying ten feet away on the floor, and she could, maybe, possibly, dive for it, and maybe, possibly, avoid being gutted and filleted like a trout on her way past Cam, but it’s not great odds.

“I’m probably not worth the effort,” Gideon offers, “Retired. Sloppy. Honestly beneath your digni—”

Camilla is fast. Camilla is stone-fucking-cold, and Camilla fights like she’s trying to punch apart your component molecules by sheer force of will, Camilla hits like an eviction notice stapled to a freight train, but Camilla is only 5’3”.

So Gideon bum-rushes her.

They grapple like that for what feels like hours, spitting and snarling and writhing on the floor. Gideon drives her elbow into Camilla’s wrist, and  _ wrenches _ a knife away. Camilla punches her in the throat. Gideon brings her full weight down and locks Camilla’s arms up behind her back, and Camilla slams her head backwards into Gideon’s face, and somewhere above them, Palamedes hums and mutters, and rubs his palm over the back of his bristly scalp. The keyboard  _ clacks _ in plasticine agony from the force of his typing.

“Cam? What was I saying the other day, about the…”

He gestures vaguely with his pistol.

“The syntax—” Camilla grunts, snapping the heel of her hand into the soft underside of Gideon’s chin “—was ‘inelegant’ you said, and you got very, very offended—”

She yanks a knife free from a leg sheath. Palamedes hums again, shaking his head.

“It is, the code is  _ horrifyingly _ redundant, but no, the other thing I said, I said…”

Camilla calls back something blisteringly abstruse and technical that Gideon understands absolutely none of. Her broken rib is screaming, and there’s a thin line of blood clouding her left eye, and now, right now would be a truly excellent time to drive Camilla to the floor again, but she just can’t make herself move, and then it’s too late, and  _ she’s _ on the floor, with Camilla’s knee crushing her windpipe, and everything is getting very red and very dark and then Palamedes says:

“Wait.”

“An excellent idea, Warden.”

“I’d like to ask her about something.”

“Of course, Warden.”

“Camilla,” he murmurs, “ _ please _ .”

Camilla huffs, shifting her weight fractionally, and suddenly, Gideon can breathe again, the red dark receding from her periphery and leaving in its wake Camilla’s flat, fathomless stare which says  _ I’m indulging him _ , _ and you will, too. _

Gideon coughs.

Palamdes swivels his chair to face her and leans low, exquisite hands draped over his bony knees.

“Where’s Harrow?” 

He unhooks his glasses from his ears, one side, then the other, and fixes Gideon with the full force of his tungsten-drillbit stare, eyebrows raised expectantly.

“Nowhere,” Gideon croaks. “I don’t know. I’m not doing her dark bidding anymore, so, y’know...”

“Hmm,” Palamedes replaces his glasses, first one side, then the other, and swivels again, returning his attention to the computer, “And is nowhere in Berlin?”

_ Clack. Clack-Clack-Clack. Clack-Clack. Clack. _

Palamedes stands.

He scoops Camilla’s discarded jacket off the floor, and folds it solicitously over his arm.

“We’re done here.  _ Auf wiedersehen _ , Nav.”

Camilla narrows her eyes, but follows, shoving her fallen long-knives into the waistband of her trousers on the way out.

It’s almost upsettingly anti-climactic. Gideon hauls herself upright, bleeding and braced heavily against a balcony railing. She fishes in her coat pocket for her phone, and taps out:

_ 6th coming ur way. My bad. _

Almost immediately, the phone lights up, buzzing furiously in her hand, and Gideon closes her eyes, and exhales, and punches  _ accept call _ .

“What,” hisses Harrow, “did you  _ do!?” _

  
  



	2. Berlinterlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What does a trained assassin do for eight hours over the Atlantic, anyway?

Even the many and varied comforts provided by a business class ticket on Lufthansa flight 836 (priority check-in, gourmet in-flight menu selections, reclining seats with extra leg room, in deference to Palamedes’ abject refusal to jackknife himself into coach) are not enough to keep her still. Camilla winces, rocking gingerly back and forth on her tailbone, rolling her shoulders with a taut grimace.

It feels like she’s been hit by a truck. 

Gideon  _ fucking _ Nav.

“Nervous flyer?”

She’s pretty, the flight attendant materializing solicitously at her elbow, even if the navy of her uniform and the ugly cabin fluorescents wash her out to a greenish pallor. She leans over the arm of Camilla’s chair and smiles warmly.

“Don’t worry,” she says, “We’ll take good care of you. Can I get you anything?”

“Water,” Palamedes rasps, quietly pressing a handful of pills into Camilla’s fist like a magician palming a coin, “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

She  _ clicks _ away.

Camilla rolls the pills in her palm and dry-swallows them in one go, tossing her head back with a harsh, heron-like jerk, throat bobbing. Palamedes regards her steadily, inscrutable behind his glasses. She exhales, dropping back into her seat, scrubbing at her hairline with the edge of her thumb. There might still be blood in her hair, Cam can’t quite tell. She examines her hand intensely; most of it she scrubbed off hours ago, but there’s a thin rime of old blood under her thumbnail all the same. 

Palamedes offered to help, like he always does, and she’d said no, like she always does.

“Okay,” she sighs, “What was that, back there?”

The infinitesimally many planes of his jaw shift back and forth, tongue sliding restlessly over his teeth. He hunches, shoulders curled, performing some elaborate act of haruspicy with the grooves in his tray-table. 

“Gideon Nav,” he begins, “comes out of retirement after—she was gone for  _ years— _ and six weeks later, the entire House of the Ninth is declared  _ excommunicado _ . And nobody, not Continental management, not the High Table,  _ nobody _ has given any sort of indication why that might be.”

“Practically speaking, does it matter?”

“Practically speaking, no, inasmuch as everyone is going to be hunting them like dogs regardless.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose under his glasses, tapping out a skittering beat above one eyebrow with his ring finger. Camilla squints.

“Are we? Warden?”

“Not... _ officially _ , no, hence…” he trails off, gesturing vaguely to encompass:

Lufthansa flight 836. The false papers. The Sixth-House jet still hangered on the other side of the Atlantic, aboard which her good knives are currently mouldering uselessly, along with a  _ very  _ nicely-appointed gun locker, the EMP grenades, surgical kit, and four pairs of Palamedes' glasses.

He lowers his hands, knots them in his lap.

“They’re sending an Adjudicator.”

It would be kinder not to say anything. It would be kinder to let him push at the bruise that is Dulcinea Septimus, Adjudicator to the High Table, in slipshod secrecy, and pretend she can’t see him doing it. Spare him the embarrassment. Touch down, fuck around in Berlin for a few days, make snide comments about preservation techniques at the Gemäldegalerie. They’re not hunting, it’d be like a vacation. Like a world in which Palamedes Sextus, M.D., Ph.D, trained assassin, is a happier man.

Instead, she pins him with a long, flat look, lips pressed into a stern, tight line.

“Palamedes.”

He lets out a long, slow breath, staring fixedly out the window.

“That’s not—she’s not the reason. It might not even be her, and if it is, we may not even cross paths at all,” he huffs, and then:

“It doesn’t make  _ sense _ . Why send an Adjudicator out after the fact? They’ve been  _ sentenced _ , there’s nothing left to judge. Someone is trying to hide something. From  _ me,  _ of all people.”

“Or you could let it go,” she drawls, drawing her knees up to her chin, and she knows, they both that he won’t, but it’s the gesture that’s important, “since the mysteries of the universe are, shockingly, not your sole concern.”

“Cam,” he says, lips twitching in a rueful smirk, “don’t be ridiculous. Of course they are.”

They’ve known each other too long, is the problem. 

So when he opens his arm, Camilla lets him pull her down, settling her head on his shoulder with a sigh. It’s only practical; the meds are starting to make things swim disconcertingly, she still feels like roadkill, and who the hell knows the next time anybody’s getting any sleep. She might, Camilla thinks, be the only person in the world who knows how to lean on Palamedes Sextus without getting stabbed in the eye by a rogue clavicle, and it’s somehow become a point of pride. She tugs his arm over her shoulder, twisting his forearm to peer drowsily at the watch face nestled on the inside of his wrist.

“Five hours. And change,” he murmurs. His fingers sift idly through her hair, tracing out obscure figures on her scalp his with his nails. 

Hugely suspicious. Camilla frowns.

“What.”

Palamedes does not look down, face still turned resolutely to the grey ocean unfolding below them. This close, he smells like nitrile powder and some kind of astringent soap, and only a little bit like gunpowder, and that only by proximity.

“ _ What,” _ she repeats, elbowing him in the ribs.

“The Third—” Palamedes starts, then sighs, “Cam. If you’re going to fuck Coronabeth Tridentarius again, can you  _ please _ not do so in our hotel room? I have a weak heart, Camilla, you know this. Walking in on that nearly killed me.”

* * *

If there is a hell, Gideon thinks, then it is international departures terminal of LaGuardia Airport, reeking of old carpet and burnt coffee; claustrophobic with human misery and the migrainous, brassy clang of construction; there’s a man busking by one of the moving walkways, playing the first four bars, and  _ only _ the first four bars of John Denver’s “Leaving on a Jet Plane” on a badly-tuned saxophone over and over and  _ over _ .

Gideon wants him dead more than she has  _ ever _ wanted anything,  _ ever. _

Seven hours back to Midtown, and  _ then _ she had to pull a brick or five out of a wall to get at her stockpile of cash,  _ with _ a broken rib, and Harrow had already mostly cleared her out, and there’s nothing you can do for a broken rib really except pop pills and wait it out, they don’t even tape ‘em nowadays, but anyway, there was only enough cash for one ticket, coach, on fucking  _ Delta _ , and  _ I’m leaving, on jet plane, don’t know when I’ll be back ag— I’m leaving, on jet plane _ —

And the cigarettes cost, like, forty bucks, and the positioning of only free outlet in the smoker’s lounge has her hunched halfway under a fucking table.

Gideon takes a long drag, head  _ thunk _ -ing against the wall, and estimates how hard it would be to snap his neck before anybody noticed. Maybe feed his jacket into the walkway belt, make it look like a really gruesome accident.

She thumbs open her phone for the third time in an hour, clicking out:

_ >>yo _

_ >>black mistress _

_ >> status? _

For the third time in an hour, Harrow does not answer.

_ >>fuck you, Harrow, i want my marker back, i’m done _

She stubs her cigarette out on the wall with a grimace.

— _ ving, on a jet plane, don’t know when I’ll be back ag _ — _ I’m leaving, on jet plane _ —

Delta Flight 909, LGA to TFX, lasts eight hours, and Gideon hates every second of it.

“ ...be such a _baby_, Isaac, if you throw up, I’ll kill you… ”

“ ...no _you’re_ a...ow! Stop _hitting _me, I’m gonna tell...”

Isaac, Gideon knows, is fourteen, because the hot flight attendant offered him a pair of pin-on wings about thirty minutes in, to commemorate his first time flying alone, and his — friend? Cousin? Sister? They don’t  _ look _ related, except maybe by the sheer number of baby-punk false piercings blurring both of their faces together—  _ she _ punched him in the shoulder and told him to yeah, take one, and he summoned up all of his tiny, teenage dignity to decline, being  _ fourteen _ , and not a baby.

They’ve been rattling her seatback, bickering like cats in a sack ever since.

The controversy of Isaac’s babyhood notwithstanding, there’s also a  _ smell _ , musty and pervasive, the in-flight wi-fi costs, like, fifteen entire US dollars, Harrow still won’t answer messages, and the only movie they have is  _ Nights in Rodanthe _ .

Four years.

Four, bliss— well not,  _ blissful _ , but nice— four  _ nice-ass _ years of retirement—she was gonna get certified in like, welding, make some big weird sculptures for the hell of it, and the money from personal training was okay, and her apartment was okay, and Gideon only occasionally had dreams in which Harrow’s hot, black stare loomed out of the snow, before turning into two coins, and then one coin, and then Gideon’s own bloody thumbprint—and then Harrow shows back up with that  _ goddamn _ marker, and it’s been more than a month since, and she’s been running these  _ bullshit _ errands that don’t make any  _ sense _ , and Harrowhark “Cryptic Bullshit” Nonagesiumus still won’t say what the hell any of it’s  _ for _ .

With the resignation of the already-damned, Gideon fires off another email, subject line “cut the cryptic bullshit, you bitch”. It reads:

_ >>you gotta loop in me sometime _ .

She shoves her phone back into her pocket, and drops into a fitful, twitchy half-sleep, woken every forty seconds by the fourteen-year-old’s foot, and the dulcet tones of:

“...oh my god, Jeannemary, stop, i’m on a killstreak, you’re gonna mess me up…”

“...gives a shit about your fortnite ranking, _**Isaac**..._ ”

_ RE:cut the cryptic bullshit, you bitch _ <<

_ All I need is for you to keep your mouth shut, and do as you’re told, Griddle. _ <<

_ Bring a gun. Do NOT contact me like this again. _ <<

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sax guy is very real, albeit transplanted from the Arrivals door outside O'Hare  
Hit ya bitch up on twitter, @gin_n_chthonic, or tumblr @thefaustaesthetic


	3. Hallelujah, Lock & Load

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, God, are you there? It’s me, Gideon, and I need a gun

“Gideon Nav.” says the boy, his voice televangically resonant, his expression flatly mournful, faintly disgusted, “You’re not supposed to be here.”

He’s luminously pale, a sharp, spiritual albinism lit to translucence by the light filtering down from the high, high ceiling, taller and more vaulted than an Olympic track event hosted inside a Swiss Bank.

“Okay, well, I’m not Harrow, so I don’t actually—like, you do know that I don’t burst into flames if I walk on, like, hallowed ground? I can be inside a church. Maybe,” Gideon huffs, folding her arms, “Maybe I’ve found religion. You don’t know. Maybe I’m here for spiritual guidance.”

“Are you.” he says, mouth pinched.

“Nah,” Gideon shrugs, “Actually, I’m here for a gun.”

He blinks colouressly.

“You, Gideon Nav, _ excommunicado _ , want to buy a gun.” 

“Yup.” she drawls, popping her lips extravagantly.

“You understand, of course, having  _ found religion _ , that God’s help is accorded first and foremost to his  _ faithful _ . Your House is barred— _ you _ are barred from any of the aid that the High Table oversees,” he intones, gesturing, a loftly, martyred sweep of his hand around the pews.

And he’s not  _ wrong, _ Silas Octakiseron of the Eighth doesn’t  _ lie _ , it’s just that the Eighth's basement of dubiously acquired goods isn’t  _ strictly _ under the Table’s jurisdiction. It’s just that where most churches have, like, bake sales and talent show nights, and elderly organists with colorful vests, the Eighth House under the High Table, the Order of the White Glass, the logical extreme of “Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition,” has an ossuary of cocaine and firearms with the serial numbers filed off. The Eighth House has Brother Colum Asht, a dog-ended cigarette of a man who’d patted her down on the way in, and who has, Gideon knows, beaten twelve people to death with his  _ hands _ .

He watches her motionlessly from his post by door, hands folded in front of him.

They’re big hands. Knuckles like an arthritic boxer, all nine and a half of them.

“Yeah?” Gideon offers, rubbing the back of her neck. “Soooo...can I?”

She’s probably got enough cash. Probably. Dollar’s down a little, but it should be fine.

“Don’t be ridiculous. This is a church.”

There’s probably a name, Gideon thinks, for that long-ass scarf he’s got draped over his shoulders, the colour of well-laundered tax records, just a shade off from the white...whatever it is a priest's robe is supposed to be called, and her hands twitch with the barely-suppressed urge to choke him with it.

“We don’t  _ sell _ anything,” Silas continues, inclining his head, “You are, of course, free to make a contribution to our good works. I’ll pray for you.”

He sweeps away towards the altar, and is gone.

Gideon waits. 

It’s quiet like only empty churches are, a  _ bigness _ of silence rising to fill the space.

Gideon shoves her hands into her pockets, rocking from foot to foot.

“Sooooo,” she ventures finally, staring somewhere above the massive, Teutonic, nicotine stain of Brother Asht’s silhouette by the door, “How’s the hand?”

He inhales with an ugly rattling sound.

“Well,” he says, evenly, “You shot my finger off. Five years back.”

“......Right.” Gideon nods.

He sighs.

“It’s fine. Not the worst I’ve had.”

Silence.

“He’s not—he’s not coming back, is he?”

“No,” Colum murmurs, “He isn’t.”

So. So no gun, and it’s been—Christ, how long?— since she’s been in Berlin, this was a last ditch, really, to begin with, and Gideon thinks,  _ well, the Continental’s off-limits, but Quinn’s a softie, _ so  _ maybe _ , except that the minute she walks in, everybody  _ else _ is gonna try to kill her, and German Walmarts traded firearms for the absurdity of employee benefits or something  _ stupid _ like that, and Gideon is so consumed by this, the mental arithmetic of inadequte funds and firearms, praying for a good ol’ fashioned Texas Walmart, fully stocked, lax on background checks, that she almost doesn’t notice the shadow that passes over Colum Asht’s face. His rue-eyed neutrality sours, heavy jaw working slowly, back and forth.

“Nav,” he rasps, “Why are you doing this. You got  _ out _ .”

And that’s the  _ other _ thing, is that Colum Asht could— _ should— _ have just shot her when she walked in, but didn’t, and she’s never gotten a bead on him except that he’s big, and run-down, and mostly honest, and he still hasn’t drawn on her, and how the  _ fuck  _ does man in his late forties have, like, a nineteen-year-old uncle? Like, how does that even  _ work? _

Colum Asht does not move.

“...Harrow’s got a marker. You know how it is.” 

Gideon  _ thunks _ onto a pew, digging her heel into the floor.

“You should never given her one. And you should never have come back,” he says, hands moving at the small of his back, “And yes. I do.”

“Wh—well if you  _ know,  _ then you gave yours away, too,” she sputters, springing into a defensive crouch, and  _ goddamn _ he’s big, and she’s still cut up from an eight-our flight and the ravages of one Camilla Hect, and Gideon very much, desperately, does not want to fight him, but, come to think of it, Silas holding his marker makes a  _ lot _ more sense, really, than—

“Not mine. The Eighth house,” Colum says, eyes cast upwards, gun in hand, “has held the same marker for close to two hundred years.” 

He drops his eyes to meet hers, gaze bleak and awful. “They kill us,” he rumbles, “before the debt can be cleared, to keep it in play.”

“They can’t...Can they  _ do _ that? They can’t do that,” she babbles.

Colum Asht fishes under his suit with his other hand, and comes up with a magazine of 9x19mm Parabellum rounds. He extends both to Gideon, pistol flat in his coarse palm. 

“God,” he says, “works in mysterious ways. And accidents happen. You were supposed to have been mine, I think.”

Her hand hovers over the gun. The gnarled lump of Colum’s stump brushes her finger as he folds them around the grip.

He turns away.

“You should go, Gideon Nav. You’re not supposed to be here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact! The gun that Colum gives Gideon is a Heckler & Koch P30, which is, in fact, the gun that Keanu Reeves uses in most of the first two John Wicks *thumbs up*

**Author's Note:**

> hit ya bitch up on [twitter](twitter.com/gin_n_chthonic) or 


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